


Phil Coulson's Afterlife Involves Bookstores

by MurphysScribe



Series: Phil Coulson is Just Resting (and taking a road trip) [2]
Category: Castle, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms, Warehouse 13
Genre: #coulsonlives, Canonical Character Death, Coulson is not dead, Coulson's incognito road trip, Fix-It, Gen, but he's just resting., there will be crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:24:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurphysScribe/pseuds/MurphysScribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has recovered from being dead. He has scars, he's moving slower than he used to, and he's getting very, very bored with staying dead.</p><p>But Fury needs him staying off the radar "to keep the team motivated."<br/>And former Agent Coulson doesn't question orders. Even when he's bored.<br/>So, he finds ways to spend the time. And reads a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have this planned as a series of crossovers, between Avengers and some of my other fandoms, just to give Coulson some friends and some relief from being dead and bored. Suggestions welcomed.  
> New chapter: another bookstore! And another crossover cameo!

Phil Coulson had been dead for almost a year: ten months and 11 days, to be exact, and he was starting to get bored.

Initially, he saw the wisdom in the decision Nick Fury had made- not that Phil Coulson was a man who questioned orders. (Any time he had ever come close, Tony Stark strutted for days, like it was Christmas and Stark was some kind of bad-influence Santa Claus. Lord, he even missed Tony)

There was a gap in his memory two months long, that had segued into an opiate haze punctuated by bouts of excruciating pain. The first time he had woken up, fully himself, he recognized the room. Throat dry, and chest thick with bandages, he couldn’t find the breath to laugh. Homey soft light and muted, retro colors; the whir and beep of hospital machines overlaid with the exultation of a baseball announcer proclaiming a home run that had happened decades ago.  
Phil Coulson still couldn’t decide whether Fury had put him in Steve Rogers’ old room to soothe him with a connection to his hero, out of expediency since they had the room prepared, or out of a demented flash of humor.

Speaking of demented humor- something they’d used to bring him back had given Coulson more hair than he’d had since college. Weird side effect of Asgardian technology, maybe? It was weird to focus on that after coming back from basically being dead. But it bugged him, made him feel even more out of place.  
Recovery had been slow. But now, Phil Coulson looked back a little fondly. At least, it had given him some structure, something to do. Learning to work around the scar that crossed his chest, relearning muscles that had reknit themselves but lain useless for months.

Fury had laughed when Coulson requested paperwork. Anything to have some purpose, something to do. Not-working hurt worse than healing scars.  
And so, Fury brought him piles of papers from the S.H.I.E.L.D. basement, cold cases, old cases, forms and accounts to trace. It was busywork, Coulson knew, but he appreciated the way it filled time. But even there, Coulson’s death hampered him. He couldn’t clear out too many of the back files, or someone at S.H.I.E.L.D. would notice.

“Why don’t you travel?” Fury suggested, after Coulson had graduated from bed, to wheelchair, to cane, and creeping down the hospital hall no longer counted as a major victory.

They had provided everything he needed- a new identity, complete with hair dye and colored contacts, driver’s license, fake passport, and a stipend. His new identity stuck close to the truth: a federal agent, injured in the line of duty, who'd taken early retirement. He had a new name: Bill Rogers. (Fury, or someone else in the office, was having entirely too much fun tweaking Coulson for his Captain America fanboying.) He had strict orders: Because he had needed to stay dead, stay completely off the radar. It was to motivate the team, Fury said. And Phil Coulson didn’t question orders. Not out loud.

He needed to escape the notice of a team with superhuman abilities (and one slightly sarcastic AI) in the age of information. “Most boring vacation ever?” he could hear Tony snarking, in his head. On some level, it was fun, driving to towns where nothing happened. Watching farm league games, staying in bed and breakfasts, eating pie in diners, going to hear tiny chamber music recitals where the musicians were related to the audience. Plotting trips to roadside attractions like the giant ball of string. He was thinking about trying Moby Dick at some point soon.

The problem with being dead, with waiting for Fury to find “the right time” to bring him back to the team, was that he was getting bored. (And starting to wonder whether an element of “right time” was Fury’s reluctance to admit how long he’d kept the secret.)

But Phil Coulson didn't question orders. And he felt weird about wanting to question them. He'd been ordered to go on vacation. There must be something wrong with him for chafing at the idleness.

He finished his pie at the diner where the waitress called him "hon" and headed to the bookstore he'd seen across the street: Bering & Sons. Looked promising.


	2. Dead Man in a Bookstore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson, sorry "Bill Rogers," needs something new to read, to pass his time while being dead. He goes to a bookstore in Colorado Springs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Crossover with Warehouse 13, Season 2-3. Myka's working in her parents' bookstore, having left the Warehouse to go think about things like H.G. Wells.)

He pushed open the door, hearing a bell tinkle softly. He took a deep breath, savoring the smell of old, well-loved books. The woman behind the counter looked up from what she was reading. "Can I help you?" He waved his hand- no, he was fine, just browsing. She nodded, and began to read again, brown hair falling forward over her face. A little maneuvering of cane, pockets and reading glasses case, and he began exploring the shelves.

Travel section... hm, where could he go next? He wondered if S.H.I.E.L.D. would bankroll a trip to Europe....Or Tahiti.... Romances with their titles written in swoopy script. Not really his thing... mysteries... maybe? They'd always seemed a little too close to his job description. But now?

Science fiction... also a little too close to his job description. But then he saw a few battered Asimov paperbacks and grabbed a couple, with memories of reading under the covers by flashlight. Biography... Ha, there was that unauthorized one of Howard Stark. Tony had bought about a gross of those and set them on fire, just to see whether paper really did burn at 451 degrees, he said. Complicated relationship with his dad. Very complicated.

He headed towards the classics. He ran his fingers over spines, lingering on gilt lettering that had faded, threadbare edges.Moby Dick would probably keep him busy for a while. A well-worn edition of H.G. Wells short stories. The Odyssey? Nah. Next time. He kind of had to laugh at himself. This was his idea of vacation reading? Vacation, sabbatical, holding pattern... Fury's whims? At least he had the Asimov. Another few months of this aimlessness, and he'd be reading Dan Brown... Better grab the Odyssey.

There was a nice, comfortably faded easy chair near the classics shelf, still within browsing distance of the books. Coulson levered himself into it with a sigh, feeling creaky and more tired than he wanted to admit. He found himself eye level with Tolstoy, and quirked a grin, picturing Natasha being disgusted at the poor translation. He pulled it down and paged through the worn volume, then leaned forward and took a big sniff. Really, old books were one of the nicest smells. Next to fresh cut grass on a baseball diamond. Or gun oil. 

He heard a smothered laugh and looked up. The woman was standing near him, grinning around the hand she had over her mouth. Behind her horn-rimmed glasses, her eyes danced.

"Oh um... hi..." he said, a little sheepishly. "Do you have a you smell it, you buy it, policy?"

"I do it too," she told him, with a grin. "Anyway, wanted to let you know, we're closing in 10 minutes..."

"Okay, I'll get out of your hair." She headed down the row of books, and he worked on figuring out the mechanics of deep soft chair + cane + stack of books + uncooperative body parts. He set the books in the chair, and used the shelf and his cane to haul himself to his feet.

She came out from behind the cash register. "Need a hand?"

"I'm all set," he stacked the books on the counter, gave her his... Bill Rogers' credit card. She put his purchases in a shopping bag emblazoned with Bering & Sons name.

"Is there an actual Bering?" he wanted to know, liking the idea of a homegrown bookstore rather than a megacorporation.

"My dad. My parents, actually."

"Then do you have a..."

"brother?" she finished for him with a wry grin. "Everyone asks that. Nope. Just me. Dad thought it'd sound classier as Bering and Sons."

He set the bag at his feet, looking around one last time, appreciatively. "Classy indeed. It's a great place. Thanks again."

"Come back next time you're in town," she said.

He paused in his departure, and came back to the counter.

"Hey, I have a question before I go. I'm not from around here- and I was wondering, where's good for dinner?"

"Well... there's Meg's across the street, but they're mostly good at breakfast and pie. Pizza three blocks that way," she pointed, "and a Thai place over on South Academy that just opened- it's supposed to be good."

He thanked her, and took his bag of books back to his car.

The Thai place was a tiny hole in the wall, and he read Asimov while waiting for his panang curry. 

"Which book did you start with?" he heard a voice, and looked up. It was the Bering woman. 

"Oh hi-- hey!" he felt himself grinning. "Do you... want to join me?"

"I was going to order takeout but... hi," she said. "Myka Bering."

"Bill Rogers," he replied, pleased. And even more pleased, when she told him she'd worked in Secret Service. And so they could drink beer, eat curry, and swap stories. And if his "retired Homeland agent" stories were heavily edited to sound like some normal government agency... she didn't seem to notice. She probably wouldn't believe some of the wilder stuff that passed for normal in his life, anyway. 


	3. Chapter 2a

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation/coda to Chapter 2... Phil Coulson is in Colorado Springs, and he's made a friend who works at a bookstore.

The next morning, Phil had his first cup of coffee with the B&B owner, Annemarie, who reminded him of his great-aunt (same twinkle in her eyes, and fondness for obscure baseball statistics) and asked her if he could keep his room through the end of the week. Of course, she said, and he headed to Meg’s Diner for his second cup of coffee and what turned out to be extraordinarily good French toast. He caught himself humming under his breath.

The sky was the palest blue color, the air just a little crisp. He decided to have a bit of a walk, it was early yet. Early, he had to smile at himself, in the sense that the bookstore wasn’t open, and Myka wasn’t around. (Though, it was hedonistically late by Agent standards- he’d been sleeping 12, 14 hours at a stretch, figured his body needed it.) He’d seen a park just a few streets over from where he was staying.

Thoughts of last night made him smile (a welcome distraction from the protests he could feel from his back and leg as he creaked along, leaning entirely too much on his cane while his muscles uncoiled.) Myka’s work with the Secret Service, had apparently, taken her into all kinds of tangents about folklore and history, dealing with stolen artifacts, something to do with recovery of national treasures. And, a few times, some kind of classified mission—he could tell she was leaving gaps and coming at the truth sideways. He could tell, because he was doing the same thing with the stories he told about work. And a man who was staying dead on the orders of the head of a top-secret superhero agency wasn’t going to press a former Secret Service agent for details.

They’d had plenty of other things to talk about. Books, of course. Her sweet tooth that she tried to ignore most of the time. The way they’d both been disappointed by Turkish Delight after reading _The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe._ He confessed his guilty fondness for reality TV (stress of his former job, he swore, and/or the pain meds he’d been on. She wasn’t buying either explanation.) Where he should go next on his road trip- where exactly the giant ball of twine that was a tourist attraction was, and whether it was some kind of urban legend. More books. It had been a nice night.  It had ended with a hug, and a promise to meet for lunch the next day.

He walked back out of the park, feeling almost jaunty, even a little daring as he collapsed his cane and slid it into his jacket pocket. He liked the cane, though he didn’t like depending on it. Tony had designed the prototype in his debauched billionaire playboy days, after an incident involving size 11 stiletto heels, tequila, and the inevitable Ace bandage.

There was a porch swing at the place where he was staying. He liked the idea of Asimov and a porch swing.  And it was a beautiful day.

Around noon, he headed to the sandwich shop  Annemarie recommended (and also bought a pack of Twizzlers for the former Secret Service agent who adored them) and then headed to the bookstore.

He shouldered open the door, and greeted Myka with a smile. “I’m thinking it’s a good day for a picnic.”

“Hey! Hi Bill! No cane?” she exclaimed, beaming.

“Nope, it’s a good day.”

“And yes, it’s a great day for a picnic.”

They headed out to the park.

She headed back to the bookstore to get ready for a fairly big deal book signing later that week (“I don’t even know,” she said, ruefully. “We do mostly used books, but there’s this mystery writer from D.C. coming on tour. Lunch tomorrow?”)

He decided to dig into _Moby Dick_ , and then maybe catch a few innings of the Rockies game on TV with Annemarie. He was in bed by 10, and the next morning passed pretty much in the same leisurely fashion: a creaky walk, then immersing himself in his book, before heading over to the bookstore.

When he got there, Myka wasn’t alone- a dark haired man and a blond one stood near her counter, talking urgently. Coulson could see intensity radiating between the three of them, caught a glimpse of Myka’s gaze sharpening as she focused on the two men in front of her. He reached a hand up to silence the bell as he slipped into the store. He caught the words “Shakespeare,” and “artifact” and Myka’s protestations that she couldn’t rejoin her team. She hadn’t seen him yet. He slipped back out of the store, withdrew to a spot where he could see when the two other men left, while pretending not to keep an eye on things.

He waited a few minutes after they were gone, then breezed in brightly, with a debonair flourish of his cane. “Hi there, I got sandwiches! Park?” As if he hadn’t seen anything that would tell him she was about to head back into the field.

She smiled, a little abstractedly. “Already? Phew. Busy morning!”

They strolled to the park- he was moving a little more slowly today, and she kept pace with him without mentioning it. And if they’d lost a little of the flow of their easy banter to a couple faraway silences from her, he didn’t mention that either.

“Do you miss being an agent?” she asked him. “Do you miss the field?”

“I’ll be back… when the time is right. What about you?”

She stared past him. “Yes… no… maybe… “ She ducked her head, her dark curls falling forward. And then she looked at him again. “Yes.”

He smiled. “That sounds about right.”

The giant ball of twine was in Cawker City, Kansas. When he got there, he sent a postcard to Bering and Sons. And  hoped someone  at the bookstore would forward it to… wherever the Secret Service had led Myka. He was willing to bet it wasn’t D.C.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. In Which a Trip to the Bookstore Becomes.... Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson finds another bookstore.  
> But doesn't get to browse before things get interesting.  
> As in "full-out-combat-in-the-reference-section" interesting. 
> 
> Plus, another crossover.

Strictly speaking, Phil Coulson did not need to go to the bookstore he found in Wichita the following week. He wasn’t even halfway done with his pile of books from Myka’s. There was no need to go into Watermark Books. Except… it looked like a nice spot. Bigger than Bering and Sons, but still kind of cozy.  The bell jingled as he opened the door and began to browse the aisles.

Hair the same color as Pepper Potts’. A starved look to his face, sharp cheekbones, and several days of scruffy beard. Rumpled, slept-in looking jeans and flannel shirt. Crowding the bookstore aisle with a giant, battered backpack. Student? Grad student? But then their gazes locked and trained agent instincts Phil Coulson had tried to shove down into dormancy began stirring. The other man moved down the aisle casually, but Coulson could see how his muscles bunched, like he was ready to run.

The former agent was torn between forcing himself to think “Not my problem, I’m dead,” and figuring out a way to chase the redheaded man if he bolted, when the redhead started to move a little faster, still casual but tightly coiled, his gaze not on Coulson but on someone Coulson could feel closing in at his back. Coulson found a way to look at what had caught the other man’s attention, just at the periphery of the aisle of books. Another man, basically ordinary, though large, big shoulders, no neck. And weirdly bundled up for this time of year, in a heavy overcoat, gloves, and a hat pulled low. Still, strange dressing choices and broad shoulders weren’t a cause for alarm. Coulson pressed himself back to the bookshelf as the bigger man edged past. And saw a flash of skin beneath the man’s overcoat.

Purple skin.

Scaly purple skin.

Oh hell. Hell no. Stay dead Agent Coulson. Go on vacation, Agent Coulson. Stay off the radar, Phil. Tour  middle America, Phil.

Meet an alien, an alien whose hulking body language telegraphed “very specific grudge” against some hapless student guy. An alien who was going to start something in a bookstore. Tight aisles- and damage to books?  Predatory alien or not, that was just _rude._

Coulson’s hand shoved into his pocket to retrieve his badge, deeply grateful his cover identity let him keep carrying one. He reached for a holstered gun he didn’t have anymore. Adrenaline was surging and it felt _good._ He stood, careful and casual like the other two, wishing he had a team of agents at his back. Wishing he at least knew the terrain of the store, its open spots, and where the civilians were. The alien thug was approaching redhead, herding him toward the back of the store no—it was the redhead leading, half turned, in a mockery of browsing as he headed down a narrow aisle.

Huh. Coulson moved so he was flanking the thug, angled so he could catch redhead’s eye, (really wishing he had his team, trained to coordinate with subtle hand gestures, to the point where they read one another’s minds. He flicked a gesture of dialing a phone- calling for backup. Got another subtle nod from the other government agent. Coulson dropped away  toward the front of the store, toward the cashiers and bored employees, who’d started to notice odd scuffling noises.

“Agent Rogers, CIA. I’m going to need you to remain calm and file out of the store. There’s a situation in the back of the bookstore. A criminal we’ve been tracking. We’re going to need to clear the store.” They nodded and filed out in an orderly fashion, with the small handful of customers. Shock was useful. They wouldn’t know it wasn’t strictly how things were done. Keeping his movements to a casual stroll, Coulson moved down a parallel aisle, back toward the situation.

Subtle almost-nod from the redhead, whose eyes darted left. Coulson edged further left into the next aisle, losing the sight line but realizing he’d found a metal dolly with some boxes. Useful. He slid the dolly free from the boxes carefully, and edged back behind the thug, wanting to know more about the creature’s weapons before he acted.

They’d moved to an open area- the children’s section, with tiny tables and cushions. The alien lunged for the SHIELD agent. Coulson swung the dolly forward and swept it low as fast as he dared, aiming for the thug’s knees as the redhead dodged to avoid backing into a bookshelf. The thug pulled a blade, an ugly long hunting knife, but nothing alien… and tried to rise- at least it wasn’t a gun. Coulson kept his hold on the cart, using it to shove the attacker down. The redhead whacked down with a thick volume he’d gotten into his hands, crashing Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations (they were still printing those? Coulson thought inanely) onto his assailant’s head. The creature reeled but didn’t go down.

And that was about when training and muscle memory kicked in, and Coulson lunged forward, adjusting for what he’d seen of the creature’s physiology, frustrated with a body that could go through the motions with weakened muscles, swinging the cart to substitute for strength he hadn’t regained…  he was going to be in a world of hurt tomorrow, but for now it felt good, really good. He cracked in with the cart, casting a few evaluating glances at the other guy. Good fighter, some martial arts, but mostly really good reflexes. He drew back and let the other guy take over. 

As the other guy punched and ducked and kicked, he punctuated his actions with a phrase Coulson should have expected to hear in a situation this weird: “Bats have no bankers and they do not drink,”

“Big heads and soft bodies made for lousy lovers” Coulson gave the countersign automatically, then stared harder at the redhead. No surprise he wouldn’t recognize a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent since he’d been gone.

Together, they got the alien down, and the other guy whacked him again with the Bartlett’s.

Not enough to render him unconscious, but enough to keep him down.  The redhead dug a knee into the fallen creature’s back and whipped out a pair of handcuffs.  Large ones. But, when he saw the purple of the skin, he reared back, alarmed. Unthinking, Coulson took his place, snapped the handcuffs on, whipped the creature’s trench coat belt off and used it around the creature’s legs.  He roughly grabbed the creature’s shoulder wrenched it back to get a look at the creature’s face. Bulbous and scaly, but not familiar. Crap. He turned so he could see the redhead. “You’re not actually SHIELD, are you?” He tried not to wheeze as the fight caught up to him. Ow.

“Not as such, no,” said the man. Coulson really wished he had his gun.  He’d settle for Darcy Lewis’s famous taser. “I have done some consulting work for the organization, a few months ago, in London. Should you need to check my story, the name they’ll know is Arthur Doyle. I had not expected my current adversary to come under SHIELD’s ah, purview.”

Great, Coulson thought, something else he’d missed. And would have to check with Fury. Who was going to love this. First thing, time to concentrate on breathing.

“Got the local office’s contact info?” he snapped, trying to cover breathlessness, and could be forgiven the edge in his voice- being dead and out of the loop would make anyone grumpy. Plus, a way to turn his own lack of information into a new way to grill the redhead he wasn’t sure he trusted. The creature stirred, and Coulson whacked him with the Bartlett’s again. He really wished he had Darcy’s taser. Though he wasn’t sure which of the two he was more interested in using it on.

The redhead scoffed. “Of course,” he said, disdainfully- he looked utterly offended at having his knowledge questioned. “They’re less idiotic than most law enforcement operatives, not that that says much.” He sat down on the creature’s back, looking for all the world as though he were sitting on a meditation cushion, and withdrew a phone from his pocket. He’d call it in, which was probably best. He began making keystrokes with his long fingers.  Or… not?

Warily, Coulson got out his own phone,  checked his coordinates on the GPS app, and then called a number he hadn’t planned to use. “Persephone’s Smoothie Shack,” a chirpy female voice answered. (Again, someone at HQ was having too much fun with the codes they’d given him, even emergency codes like these.) Coulson said:“I’m going to need a special order: Number 36, 45, and 81, for pickup. Charge it to Account 984-8622-900” Fury was going to love this. _Love_ it.

“Thank you sir, we were expecting your call, and will be there in twenty minutes.”

Crap. Did _everyone_ know more about this disaster than he did? Fury was going to love this. “Twenty minutes,” he told the consultant.

“Excellent. Meanwhile, “ he steepled pale fingers, still sitting on the downed creature.  “you’re not a SHIELD operative, as such, either,  not in an official capacity. Though, you’ve fought at least once under the tutelage of an agent who calls herself Natalie Rushman. I recognized the kick combination you used to the left.”

Coulson felt a pang at the familiar name but kept his face blank.  “Interesting guess, there.”

Again, the redhead looked deeply offended. “I never guess. I merely observe. I further observed, that you have sustained an injury, so” his fingers traced in the air, along the angle that had ended Coulson’s life as he’d known it. “And so, I know it is polite to ask- are you well, considering our exertions?”

Coulson snorted. “I’ll live. It appears to be something I’m good at.” Tomorrow was going to be brutal. He made a mental note to book an extra night in his current hotel.

 “And you, what’s your deal? Fighting crime solo?”

“I have… attracted the attention of a criminal organization with widespread ties… It is better for… those important to me… to believe I am dead… than to have their lives threatened by my adversary.”

“You’re dead? Me too,” Coulson replied, with a slightly bitter smile. “Though in my case, it’s mostly for… employee morale, as far as I can tell. Speaking of which,” he hauled himself to his feet. “Agent Doyle, if you’ve got this one under control- I should be getting out of here. I’d suggest Webster’s- Bartlett’s looking a little beat up.” Coulson hated to see that happen to a book.

Even if the SHIELD agents who came to collect the creature didn’t recognize him (unlikely, even with an altered appearance), best to err on the side of caution. And Phil Coulson was following orders.


	5. Not All Billionaire Genius Playboys Have Arc Reactors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after previous chapter.... Coulson gets a long-awaited phone call. Coulson lives, Fury lies. This makes for awkward conversations.  
> And there's another bookstore.

Coulson got into his car, intent on putting highway  between himself and the arrival of any SHIELD agents on the scene. He was following orders, but he was peeved. He’d gone in there wanting a few books. And now he’d have to find another town with a bookstore. And possibly fewer aliens. About twenty minutes into his journey, the phone rang.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” Coulson said.

“Good afternoon. Sit rep?”

“Scaly, purple and built like a left tackle, I’m a little out of the loop on the kind of alien it was, sir,” Coulson said, with deliberate blandness. “Whatever it was, it was tracking one of your… consultants into a bookstore. The consultant’s name was Doyle and he gave me the Berryman countersign. He was surprised by the alien. And you know the rest, I called it in and got out before any of ours got there.”

                “Good work, Ag… Phil.”

                Coulson’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. Tony used to call him Agent Agent, insisting that was his full name. And now, to hear the pause and switch in Fury’s voice while he wore civilian clothes, and drove exactly nowhere in search of a bookstore to help him kill time. Not dead, not retired, but not... wanted?

                “Is there a timeline for my return?” he asked through clenched teeth. “I feel confident that I’m coming close to being able to pass the physical,” he lied.

                “Aren’t you enjoying your vacation?” Fury asked.

                “Ha. Yes and no, sir. I’d like to know the endgame.”

                “I know it’s not in your nature, but I really need you to concentrate on relaxing and recovering. I know you’re not up to full strength- don’t lie to me, we’ve both worked with Barton,” Fury said, all business. “I do plan to bring you back, it’s just not the right time for the Initiative.”

                What had they told Clint and how had he taken it… Coulson couldn’t imagine. His knuckles were white. “Sir, I’m about to head into a tunnel,” he lied, keeping anger out of his voice with years of practice. Never mind that Fury was probably tracking him and knew he was on some wide open interstate.

                “The second I can bring you back, I will,” Fury said. The line went dead.

                Ordinarily, Coulson was a NPR man, but he turned the radio dial until he found “Highway to Hell,” got into the fast lane, and floored it til he saw a sign for a bookstore chain.

***************

He unfolded himself from the car. Oof, he was going to pay for his unexpected workout. Cane time, definitely. He snapped it open and leaned on it harder than he would have liked, earning a few sympathetic but awkward half-glances as he walked through the parking lot.  _I got this saving the world from aliens_ he wanted to say. That awkward conversation with Fury had gotten to him.

Losing himself in the aisles soothed him, as always. He ran his fingers along the spines, and decided he wasn't in the mood for classics. He headed to the mysteries, with their lurid covers all full of death, murder and crimes solved neatly in the final pages.

There was a big cardboard display proclaiming "AUTHOR RICK CASTLE SIGNING TONIGHT!"

Coulson had vaguely heard of the man. And his latest set of novels looked exactly the right kind of awful: silouhettes of female figures, plenty of blood and scandal.

Coulson opened the back flap, and saw that the author was from New York- he was pretty sure the guy had been at the party where Tony fell off sparkly high heeled stiletto heels, leading to the invention of the cane that had become Phil's godsend. Telling himself he wasn't homesick, he decided to stay and have his book signed. Not homesick, not homesick at all.

There was a little bit of a question and answer with Rick Castle before the autograph line formed. The way the man slouched, not caring that he rumpled an expensive jacket and shirt, dark hair and a smirk- yes, there were definitely echoes of Tony. And of some actor Coulson couldn't quite put his finger on... Jason Bateman! That was it. Coulson chuckled to himself. He'd almost died, probably regrown internal organs, and he could still remember a fact that inane? Impressive, or possibly sad.

It was masochism to stay and listen to this, to the author talking about New York, bantering easily with his audience about the NYPD, which had apparently been his inspiration, and a detective named Beckett, his muse for a new series about Nikki Heat (silly name!) set in and around the NYPD's homicide division. Castle answered the predictable questions about fact and fiction, and one fan's question, probably tinged with false hope, about whether Castle and Beckett had any kind of romance. "If I tried, she'd shoot me!" Castle protested, with an air of wounded innocence that was pure Tony. "Though I won't deny a passing thought or two about the handcuffs..."

Coulson snorted. Yes, he and Stark were definitely cut from the same cloth. Castle signed his book with an unintelligible scrawl, and Coulson browsed for a while longer before hitting the road. He lingered in the travel aisle, trying to decide where to go next. 

When he was getting hungry, he stopped for the night at ye basic chain motel for a room and a nondescript dinner at the restaurant next door.


	6. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stuff of Coulson's nightmares

_You lack conviction... oh that's what this thing does.... team scattered....stay with me.... I watched you sleep (idiot!)... Agent Agent... cold... your team is scattered... frozen.... so cold... falling...don't even know what this does.... pull the trigger. bolt of ice through the heart.... Barton, don't be a reckless pain in the ass... Agent iPod Thief! Budapest. New Mexico. Oslo in winter. Wind like a knife. His first name is Agent! Trembling... stay with me... cello in a minor key... falling... ice crystals on the breath... trading cards... lack conviction... can't breathe... falling!_

 

Coulson woke, curled in on himself, shivering convulsively. The blankets had fallen to the floor, and the heat had subsided, leaving the room chilly, but nowhere near as cold as he felt. He was shaking so hard his body was pulling painfully against his scars. Slowly, he uncoiled protesting muscles and scar tissue to stretch and reach for the comforter, wrapping it tightly around himself while his teeth chattered and he tried to finish waking up from the dream.

Turned on the light, to drive away the shadowed corners where visions of Loki's face might lurk. Trying to breathe, slow and deep, when all he wanted to do was hyperventilate. When that didn't help, he got up and went to the closet, loving hotel rooms for the extra blankets they kept folded there. He cranked the heat to stuffy and oppressive.

Nearly smothered under layers of blankets, he finally began to feel like he was thawing out. He checked the time on the phone. 4 AM. No missed calls.

When he was little and had a nightmare, his father would make him hot chocolate and read him a story. He turned on the bedside lamp and wondered if room service was open all night... no luck.

But, there were hot chocolate packets by the hotel's coffee pot. Score another one for the nomadic life of anonymous hotel rooms. He stirred a packet of cocoa into hot water in his mug, tucked himself back under the blankets, and read.

The next time he awoke, it was with his book face down across his chest, and his head lolling to one side with a fierce crick in his neck. He eased himself to sitting and stretched cautiously. Everything hurt. He worked his jaw, tense from clenching and chattering, flexed aching arms and shoulders. He eased himself out of bed, moving gingerly around muscles that hadn't been this sore in weeks. He was pretty sure this place had a pool and a Jacuzzi. If he had to be living this weird traveling half-life, there were worse places to try to soak the last of a bad dream out of his pores.


End file.
